


Cigarettes and Red Vines

by ConstancePenman



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Valhalla, poor Grif
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-03-08
Packaged: 2018-09-30 19:28:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10170158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConstancePenman/pseuds/ConstancePenman
Summary: "I can't believe," he started, shaking his head, "you would date a man like that.""Um. Sir?""Yes, Simmons?""You do know Grif and I aren't dating, right?""We're not?"





	

**Author's Note:**

> Yes. It's this trope. I'm not sorry.

Grif was late.   
  
Again.   
  
Simmons rocked onto his heels, trying to figure out just how much his fellow soldier was sleeping in today, and if this were approximately average for him. However, before he could arrive at his answer, Sarge groaned loudly.   
  
"How much longer do you want to wait, sir?" Simmons asked politely.   
  
"I don't wait! Not for Grif, not for anyone."   
  
"But, sir, we have been waiting. For at least--"   
  
"Shut’yer yap, Simmons."   
  
He was about to ask if they should just get on with the "status update," which usually consisted of Sarge asking how killing the blues was coming along and Simmons replying "very well sir," when Sarge beat him to the chase.   
  
"I can't believe," he started, shaking his head, "you would date a man like that."   
  
Simmons was used to all the marriage jokes. He was used to people making fun of his and Grif's relationship. They had both gotten to the point where they really didn't care anymore, not bothering to argue with or even correct the statements. This, however, did not seem to be a joke. Judging by Sarge's voice and disappointed head shaking, he actually thought that Simmons and Grif were...   
  
"Um. Sir?"   
  
"Yes, Simmons?"   
  
"You do know Grif and I aren't dating, right?"   
  
"We're not?" came a voice from behind him.   
  
Simmons turned to see Grif standing in the doorway, his lack of helmet revealing a disgusting bedhead and the awkward section of his face where his and Simmons' skins were sewn together, eyes wide and eyebrows raised.   
  
"Um... No? Wait, did you actually think we were?"   
  
"Yeah? I mean, yeah!"   
  
Grif looked just about as confused as Simmons felt.   
  
"But we--we haven't  _ done  _ anything! We haven't even gone on a date!"   
  
"We are in the middle of a war."   
  
"We've never kissed!"   
  
"I thought you just weren't into that kind of stuff! We hug and shit, I figured that was more your speed."   
  
"You're not gay!"   
  
Grif scoffed. "News to me."   
  
Simmons sputtered, trying to think of another reason--any would work. After a careful moment of thought, he realized.   
  
"I don't have to prove myself to you," he said, his voice a touch higher than he would have liked. "Why--why do  _ you  _ think we  _ are  _ dating?"   
  
Grif gave him a look of utter disbelief.   
  
"Seriously?"   
  
"Yeah, seriously."   
  
"Okay, um. One," he began counting off his fingers, "we're almost never apart--"   
  
"We're friends and, like you said, 'we are in a war.'" Simmons smirked. Maybe this would go in his favor after all.   
  
"Two, everyone thinks we're dating and/or married, so that counts for something--"   
  
"Like they're even  _ sane _ ."   
  
"And three," Grif smiled with this one, "we are."   
  
"Are what?"   
  
"Married."   
  
Simmons froze.    
  
"What are you talking about?" he asked, hesitantly.   
  
"Vegas Quadrant. 5 years ago."   
  
Through gritted teeth, Simmons part replied, part threatened, "We do not speak of the Vegas Quadrant incident."   
  
"Oh, and I guess that's why we never got a divorce."   
  
"Yes!" he growled.   
  
"Wait, you two are actually married? And here I thought you just  _ acted  _ like an old married couple," Sarge chimed in from the side.   
  
"Wow, I actually can't believe this," Grif said, tone flat but genuine. "I'm rethinking our entire relationship!"   
  
"Re-thinking? I wasn't aware you thought at all," Simmons snapped back.   
  
"Woah, what crawled up your ass?"   
  
"Nothing," he answered, too quick. "I mean, I've apparently been dating a--a guy without my knowledge. Wouldn't you be, um. Agitated?"   
  
"I don't know. I might be confused, but I wouldn't get angry."   
  
"Who says I'm angry?" Simmons asked in a angry voice, fists clenched angrily at his side.   
  
Grif furrowed his brow. Simmons really wished he would put on his helmet.   
  
"Simmons, why are you so freaked out about this?"   
  
"Oh, I don't know. I guess I just always figured we had a uh... 'singularly beneficial relationship?'"   
  
Grif paused.   
  
"That was years ago," he finally answered, "when we first met."   
  
"So?"   
  
"So, I'd like to think we've gotten closer since!" He looked off to the side, biting his cheek, and chuckled sardonically. "You know what? Fuck it. Clearly I screwed up, so I'm gonna leave you the fuck alone." He then turned and marched (the most that someone who had never marched a day in their life could) back inside.   
  
Simmons stood silently for a moment, staring at the space Grif had just left. Finally, Sarge cleared his throat and Simmons, a bit dazed, but glad for the distraction, faced him.   
  
"Simmons, can you tell me how the progress is on killing all the blues without your fellow soldier here?"   
  
He stared at his commanding officer for a moment too long, trying to decipher what his answer was meant to be. "Nnnooo?" he guessed.   
  
Sarge nodded approvingly. Simmons sighed in relief.   
  
"No," he said again, louder this time.   
  
"Well get 'im down here! Now!"   
  
"Yes sir!"   
  
He ran off, first checking Grif's, then his, room. Those were the most usual places to find him on mornings that he didn't come down within an hour. When he showed up in neither room, Simmons went up to the roof. As the roof in Valhalla was much higher than it had been in Blood Gulch, it served as a good hiding space since no one on the red team was particularly fond of heights. Low and behold, there was Grif.   
  
"Hey, Grif--"   
  
"Yeah, yeah. I'll be down in a second."   
  
Simmons hesitated, then asked, "Are you okay?" doing his best not to let it slip that he was actually concerned.   
  
"Sure. I'm fine."   
  
Simmons took in Grif's silhouette against the morning sky, noting the smoke climbing above him.   
  
For all his faults, Grif really was trying to quit smoking. Simmons liked to think that it was, in part, because of him. But it was probably just a health thing, even if he did know how much smoking pissed Simmons off.    
  
"You're smoking."   
  
"Am I? Didn't notice."   
  
"Grif."   
  
"Fine, I'll stop. Jesus. I'll be there in a second."   
  
" _ Grif _ ."   
  
"What?" he snapped, finally turning back to look at Simmons with tired eyes.   
  
Quietly, he asked, "What's wrong?"   
  
Grif remained very still, then sighed. He crushed his cigarette against the concrete.   
  
"It's nothing."   
  
"Grif--"   
  
"Can we please just--not talk about it?"   
  
Simmons silently relented, slipping his helmet off and approaching Grif, sitting beside him as quietly as his power armor would allow. Grif went to grab a fresh cigarette, but stopped at Simmons' disapproving stare. He rolled his eyes, then reached out an open palm to him. Simmons placed a piece of nicotine gum from his armor's storage chamber in the hand formerly his. They'd long ago come to an agreement that if Grif carried ammo, Simmons would carry gum and twizzlers. Simmons continued to hold up his end of the deal even when Grif didn't time and time again.   
  
After a few minutes of gazing at the morning sky accompanied by Grif's chewing, words finally broke the dewy air.   
  
"Do you really still think I don't like you? Even just as a friend or whatever?" Grif asked with the clarity provided by black market nicotine.   
  
"I don't know," Simmons replied, shifting uncomfortably. "I mean, no. No, of course I don't, I guess I just... Convince myself sometimes."   
  
"That you're free of the burden of my friendship?"   
  
"That no one could ever legitimately enjoy my company."   
  
"Yeah," Grif huffed. "Yeah, I get that."   
  
Another moment.   
  
"Sorry for all that," Grif gestured to the vague area where Sarge stood waiting, "relationship shit."   
  
"No, no, I'm sorry. I was being an asshole. We are  _ married _ , and I mean..." Here he paused and cleared his throat, then quickly added, "I've kinda... Wished before. That we were dating."   
  
Grif looked at him, startled.   
  
"Seriously?" he screeched.   
  
"Yeah! Like," a blush engulfed his face at certain... inappropriate memories to this point, " _ yeah _ ."   
  
"Shit, man. We could have been dating this whole time?"   
  
"At least you got to think we were! I was stuck with a hologram." He fervently wished that he hadn't mentioned that last bit, but Grif only laughed.   
  
"Yeah, well, you're a shitty imaginary boyfriend, I can tell you that much. You wouldn't even kiss me."   
  
"Hah. Sorry about that."   
  
Simmons quietly thought of another world, another universe where he might have asked, all suave--   
  
"Maybe I could... Make up for it?"   
  
Yeah, something like that. Maybe without the awkward pause, but--   
  
Wait.   
  
That hadn't been a thought. Judging by Grif's surprised (and pleased) expression, he had actually said that out loud.   
  
He laughed. Awkwardly.   
  
(As if he could do something any other way.)

“Um,” Grif replied, kindly reminding Simmons that he wasn't the only socially inept one between them. This gave him the courage to lean forward, and kissed him.

It was far from perfect.

First, their noses bumped in an extremely less-than-cute manner. Next, they couldn't seem to decide which way to tilt their heads, resulting in more nose bumping as well as nervous giggling more fit for teenage girls than fully grown men. Finally, when their mouths actually met in a way that could be reasonably classified as a kiss, Simmons got a mouthful of nicotine. It was like kissing a minty ashtray.

Overall, it was the best moment of Simmons' life that he would absolutely over-analyze while lying awake in bed that night.

“HEY SLACKERS!” came a voice from below, and Simmons abruptly realized that they were sitting directly above Sarge. He prayed the man hadn't seen anything. He probably had. “YOU COMIN’ DOWN ANYTIME THIS CENTURY?”

“Right away, sir!” Simmons answered just as Grif called out, “Nah!” They maintained eye contact, Simmons nearly smiling at Grif’s refusal while Grif just grinned. Grif gave him another quick kiss, then stood and got away from the edge of the roof. Simmons followed.

Donut would be ecstatic.


End file.
